conveys no awareness of the crying model in the corner. “Good, good.”
I head over his way. “Hey, my head’s about to explode. I’ve got to take five.” I notice Jonathan has started bouncing in place. “What is that godawful music, anyway?”
“You’re kidding, right?” he says. “That’s Helena Hope. It’s the song of the summer.” He starts singing along: “ ‘We’d be bound forever, joined as one, the two of us so young and fun.’ ”
“OK, enough, I’m ducking out for coffee. Want to come?”
“Nah, I’m rushing to catch my ballet barre class,” he says, adding, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” which is how I realize he’s now a member of the Hers staff.
In Starbucks, I order a skim cappuccino and carry it to a stool by the window. The air conditioning is arctic, and it’s disconcerting to shiver while watching passersby sweat in the ninety-degree heat outside. I cup my hands around the warm drink and think, that actress will be fine. In fact, I will be, too. All I have to do is get through the workday; just four more decent shots for the beauty story, probably a handful more meltdowns from the celebs, and two more hours until end-time, tops. After that, who knows? Probably more countdowns to countless more endpoints. For this moment, though, I push aside the urge to look ahead and ahead and ahead, and decide to sit here, right now, sipping at my drink’s hot foam, savoring its bittersweet taste.
6
Abby Rollins, Managing Editor
I ’m wading through stacks of invoices and receipts and contracts when Mimi flies into my office. “Great news,” she announces, a statement I’ve come to realize could mean anything coming from her. “Lucia What’s-her-name, the author of that superhot, best-selling zombie series, has agreed to write a short story for the November relaunch. Regina’s hammering out the details, but I’m thinking some kind of Thanksgiving tale. Picture it: A housewife whose biggest everyday excitement is a visit from the mailman returns to her hometown for the holiday and, over turkey and cranberry sauce, discovers that all of her awful relatives are actually undead zombies. Cue the total life shake-up, followed by a few thrilling action scenes, and finally a life-affirming, zombie-embracing catharsis in which the protagonist suddenly understands that her ho-hum, dull-as-dirt existence is actually the happiest, most fulfilling life ever.”
“Oh boy, that’s an idea,” I say. I’m worried not only that Mimi has insisted the writer pursue this particular plotline, but also about what she’s promised her in return. That kind of hotshot author probably commands far more than the standard $2.50-per-word we offer our top-notch freelancers. “Do you want me to draw up the contracts?” I ask, hoping to have a hand in the payment.
“Nah, Laura’s on it.” Meaning, Mimi doesn’t want me in the loop.
“OK, well, I’m finishing up the August cost record today, so we should go over the budget—”
The way Mimi simultaneously winces and dismisses me with a wave, it’s as if she’s allergic to the word “budget.” More likely, she knows something I don’t about Hers ’ finances. “I’ve got to run to a meeting,” she says, “but I dropped by to let you know we’re taking on four of those girls from my alma mater as freelancers. They’ll help out during the transition. So please get the paperwork going.” Mimi can tell that I’m doing the math, calculating the thousands of dollars in extra wages I’ll have to factor in to the next cost record.
“They’ll be worth it, you’ll see,” she says, then makes a fast exit. It’s in my best interest to trust her, even if her sense of what’s worth it seems fairly skewed; this morning I had to distract her so she’d forget about the Bloomingdales.com shopping cart she’d filled with three thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry, about to be charged to her corporate credit card, no doubt.
My phone rings, and I
I head over his way. “Hey, my head’s about to explode. I’ve got to take five.” I notice Jonathan has started bouncing in place. “What is that godawful music, anyway?”
“You’re kidding, right?” he says. “That’s Helena Hope. It’s the song of the summer.” He starts singing along: “ ‘We’d be bound forever, joined as one, the two of us so young and fun.’ ”
“OK, enough, I’m ducking out for coffee. Want to come?”
“Nah, I’m rushing to catch my ballet barre class,” he says, adding, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” which is how I realize he’s now a member of the Hers staff.
In Starbucks, I order a skim cappuccino and carry it to a stool by the window. The air conditioning is arctic, and it’s disconcerting to shiver while watching passersby sweat in the ninety-degree heat outside. I cup my hands around the warm drink and think, that actress will be fine. In fact, I will be, too. All I have to do is get through the workday; just four more decent shots for the beauty story, probably a handful more meltdowns from the celebs, and two more hours until end-time, tops. After that, who knows? Probably more countdowns to countless more endpoints. For this moment, though, I push aside the urge to look ahead and ahead and ahead, and decide to sit here, right now, sipping at my drink’s hot foam, savoring its bittersweet taste.
6
Abby Rollins, Managing Editor
I ’m wading through stacks of invoices and receipts and contracts when Mimi flies into my office. “Great news,” she announces, a statement I’ve come to realize could mean anything coming from her. “Lucia What’s-her-name, the author of that superhot, best-selling zombie series, has agreed to write a short story for the November relaunch. Regina’s hammering out the details, but I’m thinking some kind of Thanksgiving tale. Picture it: A housewife whose biggest everyday excitement is a visit from the mailman returns to her hometown for the holiday and, over turkey and cranberry sauce, discovers that all of her awful relatives are actually undead zombies. Cue the total life shake-up, followed by a few thrilling action scenes, and finally a life-affirming, zombie-embracing catharsis in which the protagonist suddenly understands that her ho-hum, dull-as-dirt existence is actually the happiest, most fulfilling life ever.”
“Oh boy, that’s an idea,” I say. I’m worried not only that Mimi has insisted the writer pursue this particular plotline, but also about what she’s promised her in return. That kind of hotshot author probably commands far more than the standard $2.50-per-word we offer our top-notch freelancers. “Do you want me to draw up the contracts?” I ask, hoping to have a hand in the payment.
“Nah, Laura’s on it.” Meaning, Mimi doesn’t want me in the loop.
“OK, well, I’m finishing up the August cost record today, so we should go over the budget—”
The way Mimi simultaneously winces and dismisses me with a wave, it’s as if she’s allergic to the word “budget.” More likely, she knows something I don’t about Hers ’ finances. “I’ve got to run to a meeting,” she says, “but I dropped by to let you know we’re taking on four of those girls from my alma mater as freelancers. They’ll help out during the transition. So please get the paperwork going.” Mimi can tell that I’m doing the math, calculating the thousands of dollars in extra wages I’ll have to factor in to the next cost record.
“They’ll be worth it, you’ll see,” she says, then makes a fast exit. It’s in my best interest to trust her, even if her sense of what’s worth it seems fairly skewed; this morning I had to distract her so she’d forget about the Bloomingdales.com shopping cart she’d filled with three thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry, about to be charged to her corporate credit card, no doubt.
My phone rings, and I
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